The Delicate Darling

By Jack Webb

It started with a missing poet, a fire, and a half-strangled girl. But before it was over Sergeant Sammy Golden and his friend Father Shanley found themselves faced with the double headache of foreign intrigue and triple murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon & Schuster
• Release date: Mar 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781440541490

Jack Webb

Jack Webb (1920-1982) was an American actor, television producer, director, and screenwriter, who is most famous for his role as Sgt. Joe Friday in the Dragnet franchise (which he created). He was the founder of his own production company, Mark VII Limited.

Book preview

It was a tan day, hot and fetid, with the sun slow burning through the still, unhealthy air. Wrapped in a thin, almost colorless gown, the girl stood before the open window, staring out through the flimsy curtains at nothing. Her jet eyes were scarcely in focus for the weight of her fatigue and the feeling of panic growing within her.

The young man on the bed stirred, turned, coughed and returned to breathing heavily and unevenly, without waking. With his movement, she, too, had turned, the fright in her rising swiftly.

The beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead and at his temples and in clearly defined droplets above his full upper lip. There was little hair on his bare chest, and because of the softness of his milky flesh, the dark, damp tousle of his hair, he appeared angelic, almost feminine.

Her own body felt clammy and sick, and she wondered desperately if she dared to bathe, dared to leave him even for that little while in her own house.

Mary, Mother of God, she whispered softly, Maria, Madre de Dios!

She returned to staring at the drab, ugly day beyond the window. What a dirty thing it was! The sourness of last night’s sickness filled the room behind her and caught at her throat until she thought she would cry out.

Then, suddenly conscious of the silence, no longer hearing the uneven respiration of the young man behind her, she turned and saw that his eyes were open, were watching. More aware of the daylight shabbiness of her worn negligee than of its nothingness, she caught it up before her between both hands and the young man smiled. The transformation in his expression was amazing. Still pale, still soft in appearance, he had become a cherub, a Kewpie doll with a whimsical twinkle.

He said simply, You are lovely. Do not be ashamed. Do you have any beer?

Por Dios! she exclaimed, you are crazy!

Por Dios! His smile mocked her. No. Please, some beer.

Yes. She fled from the room.

At the refrigerator, she grasped frantically at the essentials. Tony knew she hated beer. It would be like Tony to have counted the bottles. She would have to replace this one. She would have to replace every bottle drunk this day. Carefully, she counted the bottles on the lower shelf. Then she took one and opened it at the sink. Before she returned to the bedroom, she found a clean glass.

He smiled again when she returned. Both of them pretended not to notice the chipped enamel basin beside the bed. She tilted the glass as she poured the beer.

Sipping slowly, he paused to press the moistness into his lips with his fingertips.

What is your name? he asked. He was sitting up with the pillows stuffed behind him.

Anita.

Anita. He thought about it. Yes, he said, the pretty one with the long net stockings and the cigarettes. Is this your house?

She nodded, her dark eyes perplexed.

You are very lovely. I am sorry I have made you so much trouble.

Last night, she told him, you drank very much. Much too much. I saw.

He shook his head. No, it was not that.

The girl studied him, not understanding. Last night they had spoken mostly in Spanish. Today they were speaking mostly English. Like his smile, his voice belonged to the angels. But it was more than that, the way he spoke each word, each phrase, fell a little differently than she ever had heard it before.

You are a strange one, she said finally.

" ‘Go and catch a falling star,

Get with child a mandrake root,

Tell me where all past years are,

Or who cleft the devil’s foot …’"

Her black eyes dilated. Are you a witch?

He laughed at her.

What was that? she demanded.

Poetry, he said, English poetry. Some of the best of it.

I do not understand.

Pues, he was smiling again, of course not. Is there a Don Anita?

A Don Anita?

Cigarette girls do not own houses. His voice grew quickly hard, suspicious. You have a husband?

Yes.

He waited.

My husband is a fisherman. He is at sea.

Is he a man with honor? His fingers felt the damp edge of the sheet and moved it between them.

As most men are.

Which is not at all….

A man is a man.

He scowled. Except for me.

Please, you are sick.

Sick! He shouted the word. The world is sick and I am in your country to hunt the girls like pouter pigeons, the big-breasted girls, the long-legged girls, the strutting girls! He began to laugh and, laughing, choked, and she saw the wrenching knot tie in his shoulders and ran to kneel beside him and to hold the basin.

The Cadillac was almost as long as a hearse and the color of pink which is sometimes seen in the wings of doves. Its top was down and, in the candid light of the brassy day, the color of the woman’s hair was nearer blue than black. She wheeled the big car expertly into the loading zone before the moss green and gold front of the Chino Soy Club.

Though she was pushing forty in all directions, Reba Manning’s long legs as she slid from the white leather seat onto the walk gave several passers-by a run for their hormones as did the elegant shape she was in. The pale blue sheath of cotton she was wearing did nothing to spoil the illusion.

The green, plastic-padded door of the club was propped open with a stilt-legged chair. Back someplace inside, drums were talking. As she passed through the door, a voice from the semidarkness said softly, Sorry, Miss, we ain’t open until five thirty.

She paused, glancing about the interior of the club, shabby and patchy without glamour in the gray light. The owner of the voice stood among the small tables. He had a mop in his hand and all the chairs were upside down on the tables. In the background, the drums kept working.

Mrs. Manning raised her voice. I’m looking for a person called Esmeralda.

The janitor stared at the expensive woman with interest. Are you a friend of Miss Esmeralda’s?

I hardly think one should call it that.

The drums were quiet.

Reba Manning felt the second glance, knew the eyes were in the shadow behind the drums on the unlighted bandstand. She said, I am most anxious to contact this Esmeralda. Perhaps you could tell me where to find her.

Oh, yes, the janitor said, I walk Miss Esmeralda home most every night.

The shadow on the bandstand laughed.

Mrs. Manning felt the rush of sudden anger and controlled it. As she found the reason for their insolence, she managed a smile. Come, now, and her voice was quite gay, you don’t suppose I am the jealous wife, do you? She paused and shared their delicious joke. "Really, let me tell you, I’ve heard a young Latin gentleman came here last night to see the lady in question. Presumably he’s our house guest. He’s not been home yet. She smiled and the smile grew wistful. If Juan were well, it would make little difference. The smile vanished completely. The point is that Juan is not well. The point is that if anything should happen to him both our State Department and his own Embassy would be vitally concerned. Now, do we understand each other?"

The janitor stared at Mrs. Manning, worried and beyond his depth. The shadow behind the drums moved between chairs, stepped off the platform and came forward. He was a pale young man with too much hair and enormous eyes. He walked very carelessly until he stood before the woman. He appreciated every bit of what he saw.

He said, I’m Barnaby. I push the band around here. I remember your sick young man. He looks like an angel by Rubens and has the manners of a devil. He was sick as hell in here last night. Sloppy sick.

Mrs. Manning nodded. That would be Juan. She waited. If the pale young man had hoped to shock her, he had not succeeded.

So he was thrown out, Barnaby told her. The way anybody is handled who can not handle himself.

I see. She turned to leave.

The young man’s voice followed her. And now?

The city jail, she said coldly. They’ve an infirmary so I’ve heard.

He followed her silently on soft-soled shoes with black suede tops. When she reached the door, he spoke, Then you don’t want to hear the rest of it?

She swung. "What’s your game, Mr. Barnaby?"

He smiled. Just Barnaby. Only to tell you. You didn’t let me finish. When he was sick, one of our girls went with him. Anita. I’m afraid it may have cost her her job.

"I can make that up to her. Where would I find her, them?"

Outside the door, he saw the long, long convertible. He said carefully, I don’t know for certain.

"Look, Mr. Barnaby, either you know or you don’t know."

He leaned against the propped-open door and smiled at her. The corners of his too-perfect mouth mocked her. Of concern to the State Department, he said, of concern to his Embassy.

I dislike smart young men. Do you have something to sell?

He shook his head. His blond hair fell forward, a wedge against his right brow. He continued to smile under the oversized forelock. You can buy it or you can sell it. It’s black or it’s white. It is or it isn’t. Surely you would not have entertained the like of him if that’s the way you think. Or is he a pet you collected, a pet who ran away?

She turned without speaking and walked to her car.

He continued to lean against the door. He was a cat, he told her back. I am a cat. You cannot treat a cat as you would a poodle.

She paused at the curb and looked back.

‘God made the cat,’ he said, ‘so man might stroke a tiger.’ He had his arms folded across his thin chest. At each elbow, his fingers moved.

You are very much alike, she said finally. Only you are more clever. She returned to stand before him. Take me to Juan, she said.

His smile went away and his voice was sober. I was not pretending about not being certain. Anita lives in Royal Heights. I took her home at three one morning. She said, ‘Turn here, and turn here, and turn here.’ I could not give you a single street name. I am not even sure I could drive the route again.

Mrs. Manning said, But surely she has a last name, a phone.

A last name, I suppose. I don’t know it. A phone? Have you ever been to Royal Heights? A television antenna on every house, but the other modern conveniences … He laughed.

Reba Manning gestured at her car. Shall we try? She was no longer angry with this young man. She was considering him as a guest in her own home. When the business with Juan was done, of course. Still, she could see him insulting her more proper guests, charming others, being quite himself, being quite a find. She wondered if his music was good enough in its own fashion that she might sponsor him. She wondered if there ever had been a true jam session on Wildwood Glen.

Barnaby opened the door of the car at the curb. When he chose to be attentive, there was an almost elegant carelessness in the way he handled it. A touch of insolence remained, but why shouldn’t he watch her legs, they were good legs, weren’t they?

They both reach the ground, he said, almost as though he had read her thoughts.

You’re impossible, Reba Manning told him. She searched in her purse and found the keys.

A car door slammed behind them. A stocky girl in a wrinkled white dress came along the walk and grabbed the door of the convertible before Barnaby could close it.

Well, Mrs. Manning, did you find him?

I did not.

The girl glanced at Barnaby with candid blue eyes. She had, Barnaby decided, too many freckles and too little makeup on her broad, Irish face.

Is this Juan’s replacement? she asked Mrs. Manning.

I’m sick and tired of you, Reba said. And if you don’t care to tell Jim Morton that, I’ll tell him myself!

Yes, Mrs. Manning. Of course, Mrs. Manning. The girl leveled her chin at Barnaby. We’re looking for Juan Delicado, she said. Everybody’s looking for Juan Delicado. If you two should happen to run across him, I’d appreciate hearing about it. She opened a slightly soiled white purse and dug around inside. The card she produced had one corner bent. It read:

THE JAMES MORTON AGENCY

HO 7-6251

DU 9-9997

Betty, O’Brien

She took in his black suede shoes, his soft gray slacks, his loose charcoal pullover. And I suspect, she added with a wicked gleam in her eyes, that I can do even more for you than Mrs. Rockford Manning.

Miss O’Brien turned upon a square, solid heel and returned to a nondescript business coupe desperately in need of a lot of wash and more polish.

Before he dropped the card, Barnaby had engraved two names and two phone numbers behind his eyes and had passed on the thought that O’Brien wasn’t joking.

Really, Reba Manning said, that O’Brien woman!

Yes, Barnaby agreed. It was comfortable behind the wheel of that luxurious car, extremely comfortable. It was simply too bad that he could not afford to find Juan Delicado for Mrs. Rockford Manning. Not yet. Not so early this afternoon. The registration card above his knees gave him Mrs. Manning’s home address.

The small man had an eczema. The backs of his hands were scaled and his cheeks were gray. So the woman, waiting to use the booth when he was through phoning, left the drugstore suddenly and went in search of another public phone. For the way he had appeared through the glass was as though he had just wandered in from the grave to place one last, important call.

I do not understand it, he said. I do not understand it at all. Mrs. Manning went to the Chino Soy. She was followed by the plump one from the agency. The plump one watched and waited even as I. When Mrs. Manning returned from the club she was accompanied by a young man.

The gray-faced man paused and listened. Yes, he said, "exactly. Only the plump one got out of her car and spoke with Mrs. Manning. Not at all pleasantly, I should think, and spoke with the young man and gave him a card. Then, the plump one ceased to follow, and the young man took Mrs. Manning for a two hour ride, in her car, you understand….

"Yes. Of course. I agree. Only they drove in Royal Heights. Very slowly in Royal Heights. As though they were searching….

"Yes. Certainly. Barnaby….

"No. It is the entire name. I made inquiries. Just the one name. You understand. As with that pianist….

"Yes. The Waldo Arms. Twentieth Avenue and Lafayette. Apartment 14B….

"I am around the corner and down the block from the Chino Soy. It is where Mrs. Manning returned this Barnaby person. They have each driven off in their own automobiles. I stayed to make the inquiries of which I have spoken….

Yes, I shall proceed there at once. No, I will not lose sight of her again. You may depend on me.

He cradled the phone and found a handkerchief with which to wipe his hands. The palms were damp and he was beginning to itch. There was one thing, though, to make him happy. He had not been asked to go to the apartment on Lafayette. He had had enough of that sort of thing. More than enough for one lifetime. Even though this in the apartment should be very little truly. For this was another country and even el Jefe must remember that.

The Rabbit was out of the drugstore now and into the rented car. It would be nice, he thought, to own a car such as this and have a place to live like the place where Mrs. Manning had taken Delicado last week, a place where the pines came down to the water and everything was quiet, was quiet. He headed toward Wildwood Glen.

It took Barnaby just forty minutes to get back to Royal Heights after he had apologized to Reba Manning for his failure to find Anita’s house.

He smiled as he thought of the parting. Not bad at all, Barnaby, if I must say so myself. The business he had fed her had been inspirational. Regardless of his intentions, regardless of what she might do, he was covered. For he had told her he was going back to Royal Heights. Back to see if he could not pick up a thread of memory which had escaped him. Remember some landmark his subconscious had stored away that single night he had taken Anita home. Being alone, concentrating solely on the search, something might come back—as it almost had when they had passed the white church with the neat white parish house beside it, the frame house completely surrounded by roses.

And Reba had held his hand past any handshake and wished him luck and given him her unlisted phone number. Ah, Barnaby, he said to himself, go boy, go!

Now, he was curious about this precious penguin, this Juan Delicado whom Betty O’Brien (HO 7-6251, DU 9-9997) had said everybody was hunting, who, Reba had said, was important to the State Department, to his own Embassy.

So he stood at Anita’s door, the bees buzzing in the honeysuckle around him, rang the bell and hoped to hell Tony wasn’t home. Anita might live her own life with a few hundred miles of ocean between her and her husband, but when Tony was there, oh my, when Tony was there!

Lieutenant Dan Adams ran his fingers through hair the color of a four alarm fire, glanced up from the sheet before him and grinned at his stocky companion.

"I thought they’d lost about everything you